


The Sword and The Shield

by Linguini



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Comrades in Arms, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, background Cassandra/Josephine, but not enough to tag it as a ship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: Cullen trusts Cassandra with his most prized possession:  his command.  So when it seems like the lyrium madness is setting in, they both know what she must do...





	The Sword and The Shield

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom. Words cannot express how grateful I am to my friends, who have listened to me whine and complain about this fic for months. Most especially to c3mf, without whom this fic literally wouldn't be published. Any mistakes are the result of my ignoring her good advice.

One of the most important jobs the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces has is to meet returning parties at the gate.  This functions both as reassurance to the party’s members that their absence has been noted and their return welcomed and as a check for injuries or broken equipment that need dealing with immediately.  However, on the rare occasions the Commander himself is on mission, Seeker Pentaghast takes on the duties herself.

Which is why she’s the first one to see Cullen limping through the gates, a ragtag group of young recruits in his wake.

“Andraste’s mercy, Commander,” she says, pausing just beyond the reach of the gates.   “How much of that blood is yours?  I thought you said we had no casualties.”

Cullen looks down with a wry smile twitching the corner of his lips, eyes narrowed in consideration.  “And we did not,” he says, hand gesturing at a long trail down the front of his cuirass and up to his slightly swollen nose.  “I fell afoul of a shield.”  

Cassandra’s eyebrows sweep the rest of the way up her forehead, her expression decidedly unimpressed.  “You let an enemy close enough for a shield strike?”

“Of course not,” he huffs.  “It was Ser Brennan’s.”

In the not-too-far distance, Cassandra can see the young recruit in question, head hung low, shoulders slumped as his compatriots try to chivvy his spirits.  “Well.”  She claps Cullen’s shoulder hard and raises her voice just loud enough to be heard across the yard.  “You should work on your reflexes, shouldn’t you?  Especially if you are going to make a habit of finding demonspawn every time you leave the walls.”

He glares at her with little heat but says nothing, just starts the long climb to his office.  Cassandra doesn’t waste any time watching him (beyond what is strictly necessary for her cursory evaluation of his health) ,  instead focusing on the business of re-settling the Inquisition’s forces in camp.

\-----

The next day Cassandra sees Cullen in the courtyard, demonstrating a shield feint to the newest recruits. His face is flushed with exertion where it’s not black and blue with swelling, sweat trailing down his temples.  She watches him for a moment, evaluating his movements carefully.  His shoulders are held tightly, as though they are sore, and his left foot moves more gingerly than usual .   But there is nothing more than is expected after battle, especially one where he undoubtedly was forced to take more than his share of the burden.  Satisfied, she leaves the courtyard in favor of the armory, where a new batch of swords is waiting for her approval.

She doesn’t see Cullen again until the next morning, during her daily run.  On her second lap around the battlements, she hits her stride, forcing herself into an ever increasing pace as her thoughts slot into order.  The wind sweeps past her ears, breaths coming harshly now, and that blessed blank space where she feels like she could run forever is just in reach… Until she rounds the gatehouse and slams into something hard.  Barely managing to keep her feet, she watches as a dark form--  _ Cullen’s  _ dark form--tumbles to the ground.

“I’m alright,” he says before she can even speak.  His hot, sweaty hand takes hers as he lets her pull him back up.  “Maker’s breath,” he manages, sounding unaccountably more winded than she is.  “I feel like I’ve been run over by a druffalo.”

Cassandra steadies him then lets her hand drop, smothering the unreasonable irritation at having been halted in her exercise.  “I didn’t hit you  _ that  _ hard.  Perhaps Fereldens are less hardy than I thought.”

The glare he gives her is no less effective for being through bruised, bloodshot eyes.   _ Another night of no sleep _ , she thinks.  “Fereldens do just fine,” he grouses.  “I’d defy anyone short of a Qunari to take the full brunt of a Pentaghast at full speed.”

She ignores the surly tinge to his tone and settles against the parapet, tilting her head to examine him.  “You are not sleeping?”  It’s not actually a question.

He hesitates, shrugs, and does not manage to hide a wince from her when it pulls at his sore muscles.  “No,” he admits, joining her on the cool stone.  “But it’s nothing unusual.”   _ Nothing I can’t handle, _ he means, and she agrees.

With a clap on his shoulder ( _ definitely  _ still aching, if the stifled wince is any indication), she stands again.  “Go contemplate the stars somewhere else,” she says, not unkindly.  “Not where I am running.  The courtyard, perhaps.  Or the Chantry.”

A huffed laugh is her only answer, and he disappears into his room.

\-----------

It’s another two days before the Maker-cursed heat finally breaks, with a thunderstorm powerful enough to send deluges of mud careening down the mountainside and towards the village, burying half the homes in less than a day.  Every free hand in Skyhold is there, helping villagers to safety, shoring up the fortifications, retrieving crucial supplies.  The wind howls and rain lashes down on them, making every step treacherous.  Cullen is leading the soldiers’ rescue efforts while Cassandra directs everyone else, and their paths don’t cross for days.

She actually doesn’t intend to see him at all, but the end of a mission always leaves her veins thrumming with unspent energy.  Sleep never comes easily, and she’s never been good at being keeping still, so she sets off on an endless loop of the battlements.  The rain has cooled the air considerably, though it hasn’t managed to wash away all the mud, and the clouds have dissipated, giving way to the glistening of stars in the dark velvet sky.

When she reaches a quiet corner in the shadow of the rookery, she pauses, resting her hands on the parapet and looking out into the dark.  This is her favorite time of night, when most of the other residents of Skyhold have gone to bed, leaving only the guards on watch and a few others.  Her eyes are drawn as ever to the light from Josephine’s room, and the Inquisitor is no doubt in the Chantry, but nothing else stirs.  A long moment of blessed peace after a hard-fought battle.  Taking in a deep breath of crisp air, Cassandra lets her eyes slip shut, feels the tension ebb from her bones, and offers a prayer of thanks to the heavens.

“You!  Stop there!”  A hoarse shout shatters the silence, and Cassandra turns just in time to see Cullen race past, sword drawn.  Without thought, she draws her own weapon and follows him, chasing down whatever has him flying down the battlements.  Their sprint catches the attention of a pair of guards, one of whom joins the pursuit.

Cullen careens down the stairs heedlessly, stumbling a bit at the bottom but managing to stay upright.  In the gloom, Cassandra can’t see anyone at all; her only hope is that Cullen knows where he’s going.  The back of her neck prickles in a familiar rush of vigor as she forces tired limbs to cooperate.  

Eventually, whoever it is Cullen’s chasing gives them the slip.   _They must have started with quite a lead_ Cassandra thinks as she follows Cullen across the courtyard.  She hasn’t yet managed to catch a glimpse of the intruder; she can’t even hear their footsteps in front of them.  The oddness of this strikes her suddenly and with a burst of speed, she catches up to Cullen, grabbing his shoulder to force him still.  “Stop,” she commands, and when he tries to resume the chase tugs him back.  “Commander!” Her voice is sharp.  “Who are we chasing?”

Behind her, the guard slides to a halt, just in time to see Cullen whirl around and slam her into the wall.  The sheer unexpectedness of it lets him get his blade against her throat before she can blink, his hands fisted in her jacket as hard as the steel against her skin.  “You  _ let  _ her get away,” he growls, face an inch from hers.  “I am not fooled,  _ mage. _  I know what you are, and I know how to defeat you.”  He leans closer, forcing Cassandra’s head up.  There’s a sharp line of pain under her jaw and then the tiniest trickle of blood trails down her throat.  

This close she can feel the tremor of his hands against her chest as the blazing heat of his body washes over her, hear the harshness of his breath rattling in his chest.  The guard stands to the side of this silent tableau, hand resting uncertainly on his sword. Without a word, she raises a hand to halt his movements.

A steadying breath.  “Cullen,” she says quietly, resting her hand on his wrist carefully.  “Who do you think I am?”

“Do not play games with me,” he growls, and leans closer, blade slipping that much nearer her skin.  “I have seen the ruin you left, watched your demons tear my brothers apart limb by limb.  I see you, blood mage, and I will not suffer your treachery again.”  

“I…”  She hesitates, shifts her fingers to rest against the thrumming of his heart between the thin bones of his wrist.  “Is that who you think I am?  Enchanter Uldred?  This is not Kinloch, Cullen.  You are in Skyhold.  Look.  Listen.  Can you not tell the difference?   _ Skyhold _ .”

There’s a breathless, weightless moment where she thinks  _ he will not return _ , where her blood throbs in time with his heartbeat.  He watches her, and something in him settles, just fractionally enough that she can twist out of his grasp and pin him face-first against the wall.  She twists his wrist hard and his sword clatters to the ground, where she kicks it back to the waiting guard and presses Cullen’s shoulder firmly.  

He struggles and spits and curses, but she has the advantage of clarity of mind, and eventually he quiets.  There’s a change in the texture of the air, a sudden heaviness, and then without warning, he takes a great shuddering breath and crumbles to his knees in a heap.

Cassandra nearly isn’t fast enough to follow, dropping beside him, a cautious hand at his shoulder.  WIthout a word, he reaches up, wraps his fingers around her wrist and squeezes hard enough she is sure there will be bruising later.  But his fingers say  _ I am here _ , so she presses his shoulder in return even as her heart stutters in her chest.   _ So you are. _

Her other hand goes behind her, and the guard relinquishes Cullen’s sword before shifting on his feet and venturing, “Seeker?  Do you…”  His question dies in the air between them.

“We are fine,” she says, voice made of stone and steel.  “Return to your post.”  The threat of danger should he open his mouth to anyone needs no airing.

The guard obeys quickly, and then all that’s left is the sound of Cullen’s ragged breaths, wet and raw around the edges.  Gently, as if dealing with a spooked halla, she releases his shoulder, trailing her fingers down his arm to wrap around his wrist, counting the thudding of his pulse.

They sit in silence for several heartbeats, long enough that Cassandra starts to worry about being found.  “Come,” she says as she rises, pulling him with her.  “We have much to discuss.”

Cullen straightens, though still with the sloped shoulders of someone bearing an almost impossible burden.  She can hear him swallow roughly, watches him straighten until he’s practically standing to attention.  “I know what you must do,” he says quietly.  “And so do you.  Do not make this harder.”

“There is nothing that cannot wait until the morning,” she says, watching him for signs of the madness taking him over once again.  Even as she says it, he shakes his head.

“I may not have until morning,” he says.  “You know as well as I that it--  That things deteriorate quickly at this stage.  You must do it now, before I…”  He swallows, voice paling as he forces the words through his lips.  “Before I hurt someone else.”  She forces her thoughts away from the already-healing cut just under her jaw.

The weight of this moment bears down on her shoulders.  He is right, and she knows it.  But she only rests her hand on his arm, turns him towards her quarters.  “You will stay with me tonight, and I will make sure...nothing happens.”

For the rest of the night, neither of them says anything.  They move with the ease of soldiers who have spent much time together in unpleasant duties, and when he tumbles onto the cot they’ve dragged into her room, arms folded behind his head, she can almost pretend that she’s not guarding one of the most potentially dangerous people in Skyhold, that the door is not locked, the key not resting under her pillow and both their swords not tucked by her side in her bed.  Almost.

\----------

The conversation the next morning is simultaneously easier and harder than she thought it would be:  Cullen is resigned, but not angry, and accepts her judgement as easily as he has in anything else.  They agree not to inform anyone but the Inner Circle for the moment, in the slim hope of keeping their enemies from finding out and using the thinned leadership as an excuse to attack.  

As he leaves, Cullen reaches for his sword unthinkingly, hand freezing in midair before dropping to his side, still trembling.  It takes every inch of self-discipline Cassandra has to leave him unarmed, but there is no good to come from giving him a weapon when his mind is only tied to reality by gossamer threads.

He looks at her with something like relief mingled with fear, and she can read clearly the things he cannot bear to say on his flushed, haggard face.  He says none of them, of course, just stands with a soldier’s stiff spine and gives her a nod before turning on his heel.

“Cullen,” she calls softly.  He stops at the threshold to her room, hand trembling against the wood of the door jamb. “Your place is here in Skyhold,” she promises.  “You will not be forsaken.”

There’s a moment where she can see that sink in, where the line of his shoulders slants just so in muted relief.  He nods, and is gone.

Cassandra presses her hands into the wood of the table, glaring at the hilt of Cullen’s sheathed sword, and tries not to think of failure.

\------------------------

The meeting of the War Council to inform them of the need for Cullen’s replacement is more difficult than relieving him in the first place, with interminable hours spent debating replacements while Josephine sends her sympathetic looks from across the table every time the arguments circle around again.  By the time the evening bell rings, they’ve found no better solution than for Cassandra to assume the training the soldiers for now.  She accepts the assignment dutifully, and waits for the others to leave before letting herself drop to her seat.

Silence falls for a long, blessed moment before a soft, tender hand falls on the back of her neck, as welcome as it is unexpected.

“How are you?” Josephine asks quietly, thumb sweeping just under Cassandra’s hair.  “You look tired.”

Cassandra says nothing, which she knows tells Josephine just as much as if she tried to explain the knot of emotions under her ribs.  For a long moment, a  _ shameful  _ moment, she can’t bring herself to break away from the comfort Josephine offers so readily.  

“I must go see Cullen,” she says eventually, reaching up to still Josephine’s fingers.  “I do not think it is wise to leave him for long.”

Josephine doesn’t disagree, just presses her hand and says, “Let me go.  I haven’t seen him in days.”  And when Cassandra takes a breath to caution her, says only, “He’s still our friend; he must be shown so.”

A sudden rush of warmth seeps through the chill that had invaded Cassandra’s bones the night before:  affection for Josephine’s kind, sensible nature.  “Yes,” she says, and turns in her seat to look up at her beloved’s face.  Carefully, she draws Josephine’s hand down to press a gentle kiss in her palm before releasing her.  “He will be glad of the company, I think.”  

The smile Josephine gives her is soft, the hand that comes to rest on Cassandra’s cheek even softer, thumb sweeping against Cassandra’s cheekbone.  “Don’t stay up too late,” she admonishes lightly.  “My feet will freeze without you.”  

“I’ll be as quick as I am able.”  Josephine bends to give her another kiss, then leaves her to contemplate the War Table, and the tiny lion marker that sits squarely in Skyhold.

\-----------

The Inquisition is quickly amassing the greatest number of troops since the Exalted March.  Cassandra knows this, has kept track of the figures as the combination of the Inquisitor’s reputation and Josephine’s persuasion grew their ranks.  Still, she is unprepared for the sheer amount of minutiae Cullen handles on a day-to-day basis.  It would be nearly overwhelming at the best of times, to say nothing of battling the effects of lyrium withdrawal, and is even worse now that Cullen has been unwell for so long.  His desk is one large mountain of paper that takes an entire day for her and Josephine to sort through.

Circumstances conspire to keep Cassandra from speaking to Cullen for days after that.  She doesn’t hear any mutterings about his…  _ lapses _ , which means either her reputation is still intact or the recruits are smart enough to keep their comments hidden.  Truthfully, she does not have time to care which.  

Her days become filled with attending to the recruits, speaking quietly with Cullen’s captains, and rearranging her own affairs to make space for his duties.  It’s not until the evening bell rings that she realizes that, far from talking to him, she hasn’t even  _ seen  _ Cullen in days. She’s just considering whether it is better to seek him out or let him keep his pride when she runs into Josephine looking almost…  _ rushed.   _

“Good evening, Seeker.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear, writing tablet by her side.  “Have you seen the Commander today?”

“No,” Cassandra admits, and feels a rush of chagrin that collides with a sudden prickling at the tips of her fingers, the familiar feeling that says  _ something is happening, be ready be ready be ready. _  “Have you tried his office?”

The subtle tightening around Josephine’s eyes is the equivalent of a sigh and a stamping of her foot in frustration.  “His office, his loft, the armory, the camp, the kitchen, the stables.  Even the infirmary!  He’s nowhere.”

Cassandra hesitates, mind running over possibilities even as her hand settles over Josephine’s arm, squeezing gently.  “I will make inquiries,” she says.  “And when he is found, I shall have him sent to…?”

“My rooms,” Josephine says with a grateful smile.  “He has stood me up, which is most unlike him.”

With a firm nod, Cassandra turns on her heel.  Josephine is thorough and intelligent.  If she says Cullen is not in his usual haunts, then it must be true.  The first place she checks is with the guards at the gate--Cullen’s room is over the gatehouse, and she’s heard enough mutterings about the Inquisitor’s visits (which she allows strictly because it means they are actually  _ paying attention _ ) to know his door is closely watched by the guards.

It takes less than an hour to round up all the guards and question them, one by one, until she finds the young girl who quakes in her boots as she reports that Cullen left in the early hours of the morning the day before.

“Did you notice anything unusual?  Was he with anyone?  Did he say where he was going?”

“No, my lady,” she says.  “He just strode up to the gate so I let him out.  I assumed he was on the Inquisitor’s business.  It’s...it’s not my place to ask those questions.”

Cassandra bites her frustration back feeling the muscle in her jaw twitch.  “And there was  _ nothing  _ else unusual? Nothing else that struck you?”

There’s a moment of silence as the guard thinks, and when she breaks from standing to attention to look at Cassandra properly, her eyes are wide as saucers.  “My lady.  He left without his sword.”

_ Of course he did, _ is her immediate thought.   _ You left him defenseless.  What else was he to do? _

\-----

The Herald’s Rest is crowded when she arrives, Bull and his Chargers taking up nearly every available seat.  But Bull stands head and shoulders above the rest, and the crowd parts for her easily without missing a beat of their rowdiness.  

He’s engaged in conversation with Dorian, which is actually something of a relief.  Better six hands than two.  “Come with me,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument.  “I need you.”

To their credit, neither of them ask any questions, just turn and grab their weapons and follow her out into the humid night air.  

“Cullen has gone off on his own,” she tells them shortly, striding for the gate.  “Without his weapon.”  Their twin exclamations of disbelief slide off her like so much water off a oilskin.  “I do not know where he has gone, but I do not think he will be hard to find.”  She grits her teeth as they approach the gate and glares at the guard before they can ask a single question.  

Without a word, the three of them split into a search pattern.  For what seems an interminable amount of time, they slog on, scanning the area just as carefully for rogues as they are for Cullen.  

It’s Dorian who finds him, with a shout that sets her sprinting to join him.  As she nears, she sees Dorian knelt in the mud next to a crumpled, unmoving shape she knows instantly is Cullen.  The man himself is lying on his side, curled awkwardly as if he were a marionette with all its strings cut.  His face is a deep red and already blisters are starting to form across his sunburnt nose and cheeks.  Cassandra drops to her knees in the mud, feeling at his throat for his pulse.  His skin carries a shocking heat, more even than the sun would provide, especially given he’s laying half in a ditch in the late afternoon.

An overwhelming sense of relief floods through her when she feels the throb of his heart beneath her fingers, which she stifles mercilessly.  Carefully, she tugs him over by his shoulder until he’s flat on the ground, and frowns at the trickle of blood now exposed against his temple.  “Cullen,” she calls and shakes him gently, then harder, fingers curled under his cuirass.  But he does not answer.  

Suddenly, she’s pushed aside as, without a word, Bull hefts Cullen into his arms.  He doesn’t wait for the two of them, just heads back for Skyhold via the fastest path, leaving them to hurry after.  Cassandra takes a breath, then another and then sprints after them.   _ Fix this fix this fix this  _ pounding in the back of her head.  Not for the first time, she’s grateful for Bull’s tremendous speed, as by the time she’s sprinting across the courtyard, the healers are already examining Cullen.

His armor is already laid to the side, and the healers are taking him out of his clothing.  Cassandra must make some noise of protest because one of them tosses “He’s too hot,” over his shoulder without pausing. Once Cullen is down to his smalls, the healers press and prod at him, frowning in concentration.  And then one of them circles the bed, grasps his shoulder and hefts him onto his side.  There’s a familiar odor of the aftermath of a hot battlefield--decaying flesh and dried blood that sets Cassandra’s teeth on edge.  And then she sees it.

At the back of Cullens’ shoulder is a small wound, only as long as her smallest finger, red and open and weeping some sort of foul yellow fluid.  Even her untrained eye can see the corruption that spreads from it, angry red lines that stretch across his skin, and suddenly the flush looks not so much like sunburn as fever.

With this new perspective, it’s easy to recognize the toll the corruption has taken on Cullen.  His ribs and spine are closer to his skin and he trembles incessantly with the chills of deep fever.  Even the dark circles under his eyes, which she had mistaken for the bruises of a broken nose, turn into marks of the exhaustion borne of fighting infection.  

As the healers lay him carefully on his front, readying their supplies with the same precision as a soldier headed into a long, protracted battle, she wonders how long he’s not been sleeping, how she could have lost account of him so badly.  How she could have  _ ever  _ mistaken this for a lack of lyrium.

“Come, Seeker.”  Dorian’s voice behind her is soft, but his hand around her bicep will brook no argument.  “Let them work.”  

She lets him drag her away for a brief second, long enough for her to catch her breath, and then she’s shaking herself out of his grip.  

“I must inform the Inquisitor,” she says, and strides out of the infirmary before either of them can say another word.

\-----------

The Inquisitor, despite the late hour, is in the War Room with the rest of her advisors.  Even though Cassandra takes a moment to ensure her face betrays no emotions, something in the set of her shoulders or the movement of her hands must give her away, as she has the entirety of their attention almost immediately.

“The Co-- Cullen is in the infirmary,” she says without preamble.  “He has a wound, badly corrupted, and has been in the mountains at least two days with no protection.  The healers are… concerned.”

“What do you mean ‘in the mountains?’” Leliana shoots back immediately from the other side of the table.  

Cassandra opens her hands in as much a gesture of confusion as she will allow herself.  “I do not yet know the answer to that, but I have seen the wound and it is… unpleasant.”  A rustle of fabric to the side and she can picture how Josephine is standing, how her face creases in concern, not only for Cullen but for  _ Cassandra _ .  She cannot afford the distraction.

There’s not a word from the Inquisitor.  She only turns on her heel and is out the doors before any of them can blink, Josephine hurrying to catch her.  

Cassandra squares her shoulders, turns to address the Spymaster.  “I will see to the soldiers,” she says.   _ Of course _ she will, she has been for days now, under the guise of the Commander being otherwise engaged.  But it is the only thing she can do and be useful, and so it will be done.  It most certainly  _ is not  _ a retreat, no matter how much it might feel like one.  It. Is. Not.

\------------------

With the strain of Cullen’s duties added to hers, Cassandra has ample excuse not to make a visit to the infirmary.  Instead, she relies on news from the Inquisitor at the War Council or the sporadic visits from Josephine to keep her updated on his condition.  But every time she corrects a recruit’s movement, or signs a requisition for more silverite, or checks the calibrations of the trebuchet (and really, why does he not delegate that duty?), the tangled knot of guilt and worry tightens beneath her sternum.  

_ He trusted you.  You were meant to be watching him.  How could you have misread everything so badly?  Why didn’t you  _ **_see_ ** ?

The answers never come.  The guilt never stops.

\---------

“It was poison,” Josephine tells her one evening, holding out an intricately designed bowl of iron decorated in runes and sigils.  “A poisoned dagger.   It took some time, but much damage has been done.”

Cassandra takes the bowl and is almost furious at the sight of the shard inside, no bigger than her thumbnail, resting at the bottom.  “That?” she scoffs, incredulous.

Josephine nodes, takes the bowl back to set on her desk.  “Just the very tip of the blade, broken off under his armor, the healers think.  A mercifully small wound.”  She pauses, looks out the window to where the sun sets in flames of red and orange.  Her voice drops low, hushed with the weight of potentialities.  “Any larger and they say he would not be here among us now.  Even now, they cannot explain it.”  And then, as if the thought is too heavy to bear on its own, she drops into her chair, presses her hand over her mouth and lets the other clench white-knuckled in the folds of her dress.

The enormity of her mistake hits Cassandra like a blow.  She aches at the sorrow in Josephine’s expression, the fear, and would give anything to protect her from it, to ease her suffering.  But her feet are stuck fast to the floor, guilt freezing her in place.

After a long moment, Josephine takes a deep breath, turns to face Cassandra, and gives her a tiny, sympathetic smile.  “He asks for you,” she says quietly.  “When he is awake and his mind is not half in the Fade.  You should go see him.”

A bolt of surprise flares through her, defenses snapping into place.  “I’m sure the healers have everything well in hand,” she says, and cannot keep herself from looking away from Josephine’s incisive gaze.  “I would not wish to interfere.”

The silence that fills the room is heavy with disapproval, or perhaps disappointment, but Josephine’s voice is carefully even.  “He would be glad to see you.  It has been nearly an entire fortnight.”

Cassandra does not sigh, but the hand she runs through her hair is as good as one anyway.  “Perhaps,” she allows.  “Maybe tomorrow.”  They both know she has no intention of following through.  When she feels her expression is placid enough, when she can look at Josephine without revealing anything, she crosses the room and drops a kiss on her cheek. “Goodnight.  Do not linger overlong with your candles.”  And she sweeps out into the night air, guilt and regret wrapped around her like a cloak.

\----------------

Like many things in her life, Cassandra may plan her way but the Maker directs her steps.  For days, she avoids the quartermaster, or anything else within sight of the infirmary, spends hours down in the camp training the recruits, or huddles in her office under a mountain of correspondence.  But when the Inquisition’s Ambassador puts her mind to something, it becomes a certainty as sure as the wind blowing over the Frostbacks, and Josephine has decided that three weeks is long enough to allow Cassandra to make up her own mind in visiting Cullen.

Which is how Cassandra ends up trudging across half of Skyhold towards the infirmary.  Or she  _ would  _ be, if she allowed herself to trudge.  Her steps are as regimented as ever, firm and quick; it’s only her mind that rebels.  She’s not even sure of the machinations that have her here, but they had involved Josephine  _ and  _ the Inquisitor, and left no room for her to demure or protest.

And so she finds herself standing uncomfortably in the doorway to the infirmary.  She allows herself a moment to gather her thoughts under the guise of adjusting to the dim light within and scans the room.  Other than Cullen, the only other patient is one of the servant girls from the kitchen, arm swathed in white bandages that bear the distinctive smell of calendula against burn.

Cullen’s own bed lies against the wall on the far side of the room, beneath the slanting late afternoon sun.  Her steps echo against the flagstones, but he does not wake; his stillness gives her an opportunity to examine him carefully.  The gash on his head seems to have healed well, but this is the only piece of news that is acceptable.  Everything else--the sallowness of his face, the heavy shadows that curl under his eyes and slant down gaunt cheeks, the way his trembling fingers curl against the bed linens, all of it--tells of a long, desperate, lonely scrabble for life.

Suddenly, she cannot remember why she’s stayed away.

He is her responsibility.  Has been since she’d recruited him in Kirkwall--an exhausted but capable commander who had managed to scrabble together some semblance of order out of chaos.  And then he’d come to her with his decision to stop taking lyrium, entrusted his command, his very  _ sanity  _ to her care.  To what end?

As if summoned by her thoughts, there’s a muted gasp from the bed as Cullen startles awake, trembling arms pushing himself up from his bed.  His eyes dart around the room wildly, such a look of unrestrained panic on his face it drives the air from her body.  Before she can think, she’s settling on the edge of the bed, hands pressing firmly on his shoulders.  “Lie down,” she says.

He struggles with weak hands, tries to push her away, to fight, a warrior even in delirium. “Solona!”  His gaze is glassy and unfocused, and though he looks at Cassandra, she’s not sure he even sees her.  “I need to--  It’s too far.”  His hands wrap around her wrists, his skin hot and tight against hers.

“ _ Cullen _ ,” she says sharply.  “Stand down.”

He freezes, muscle memory borne of hours of training, rooted deeply enough to lie in his very marrow.  There’s a long moment of tension before his eyes clear.

“Cassandra?”  His voice is rough, hope creeping in the edges between the syllables.  “Where…”  Under her hands his shoulders relax, enough that she sits back to watch him carefully.  A quick shuddering breath and his eyes slip shut.  “The infirmary,” he breathes.  “Skyhold.”

This last he says reverently, clearly meaning  _ home _ .

“Yes,” she says, dragging over the chair by his bedside and shifting carefully away.  Her hands rest on the blanket, just short of touching his arm.

His breathing catches in something suspiciously like a sob, but when he opens his eyes again, there is not a hint of moisture in them.  “It is good to see you,” he says, finally.

_ How can that be true? _  “I would say the same, but…”  She shrugs, spreads her hands to mean  _ look where we are _ , and he laughs--a small, breathy thing with ragged edges.  

Silence falls between them.  This is not the still, comfortable silence of second or third watch, nor the familiar satisfied silence of post-victory exhaustion.  No, this is a leaden, unwieldy thing that settles awkwardly in her ears, heavy and oppressive.

Cullen is the one who breaks it, finally.  “I’m sorry to have left you with all the work.”

She can’t stop the bark of surprised laughter.  “What?”  It’s terribly Fereldan of him.  The Maker must have carved apology into their very bones.  

“I hadn’t been keeping up,” he says, opening his eyes to watch her with an open, earnest expression.  “And I know--”

“Hold,” she says sternly, hoping to stave off a fresh wave of guilt.  “Just...hold.  I cannot hear this.  Not from you. Not now.”

Cullen looks at her with muzzy suspicion, but cannot seem to find the energy to prod at her any further, for which she is unconscionably grateful.  “ How are you?” she manages finally, forcing herself back upright, hands folded carefully in her lap.  “When will the Sisters release you?”

He shrugs, one-shouldered.  “They refuse to commit,” he says ruefully, and then, with reluctance, “They would like me to remain lucid for an entire day first.”  There is so much wrapped up in that admission, her heart clenches again, and she can only nod.  As if to punctuate that thought, Cullen gives a short, sharp shiver and clenches his hands briefly in the blankets over his lap.  He looks washed out and frail, like he might slip back into the Fade at any moment, and Cassandra is struck again by how close they were ( _ still are?) _ to losing him entirely.

A small, fragile silence falls between them, then Cullen’s soft confession.  “The healers say it was the lyrium that kept the corruption from overwhelming me completely.”  One ragged breath.  Another.  “Perhaps--”

“No,” she says immediately, resting her hand on his arm and squeezing to draw his gaze to her fully.  “Do not think that.  You cannot--”  And then, as she suddenly realizes she has no right anymore to say what he  _ can  _ or  _ cannot  _ do, takes a steeling breath.  “You have come so far, and are in no position to make such decisions in any case.  Wait at least until you can sit up unaided and your mind is clear.”   _ Stupid. “ _ Clear- _ er _ .”

Cullen nods, looking suddenly even more exhausted, eyelids drooping.  He shifts awkwardly, then folds his hands on his chest and breathes deeply.  “As you say,” he manages, and lets his eyes slip shut completely.  “Thank you.”

The absurdity of him  _ thanking  _ her grates on Cassandra’s nerves.  “You’re...” is all she manages, and has to clear her throat as she stands abruptly.  “I am glad you are doing well.”  Her hands feel suddenly too tight, the back of her neck prickling.  “Do not take too long to come back.  The recruits might forget who their commander is.”  He is asleep before she reaches the door, which is just as well, as it means one one bears witness as for the first time in the entirety of her memory, Cassandra Pentaghast  _ flees. _

\-----------------------------------

The next day, the air is again thick, and the sun blazes above with not a cloud in sight to provide relief.  It is already sweltering when she wakes up. This does not keep her from her daily run.  In fact, she forces herself into an extra five laps of the fortress and another full hour running up and down the stairs.  When her lungs feel as though they are on fire, when the sweat trails in rivers down her back, she takes her heaviest sword and spends the rest of the morning training in the unused shack that she has claimed for her own.

The ache in her muscles is a familiar one, sends her blood singing, but it does not drive away the thoughts that have been circling around her mind like a hawk tracking it prey on the ground.   _ More _ , she demands of herself, over and over until she cannot lift her arms any longer and her knees threaten to give out.  She is covered in sweat and dirt and does not feel any better for it.

A voice echoes across the room, cutting across her panting breaths. 

“Have you finished?”  Josephine’s voice is soft and knowing, and Cassandra has to shut her eyes against the rush of frustration at the sudden intrusion.

“Apparently so,” she says, sheathing her sword and settling on a nearby hay bale.  Wearily, she follows running her hand through her hair, looking across at where Josephine stands just inside the doorway.  “Can I help you, Ambassador?”

Josephine tilts her head just so, and Cassandra immediately knows she’s misstepped.  It doesn’t stop her from crossing the room to Cassandra anyway.  “No.  I had only heard that the Seeker was engaged in an epic battle and wanted to see for myself.”  A gentle hand rests on Cassandra’s head, cards through her hair for a moment.  “Had I known you were warring with only yourself, I’d have come sooner.”

The urge to lean into her touch is nearly overwhelming, but Cassandra resists, climbing to her feet and ducking around Josephine’s reach.  “I apologize for not being more entertaining,” she says as she makes a minute, completely unnecessary adjustment to the practice dummy.  “I will endeavour to do better in the future.”

The weight of Josephine’s disappointment sits heavy on her shoulders, but it is nothing compared to what is already borne.   “If you’ll forgive me, Lady Ambassador.”

“No,” Josephine says, quiet and firm.  “I will not.”

Cassandra freezes, standing just out of the reach of a shaft of sunshine. A breath, the slow unfolding of uncertainty as she turns to face her.  “I beg your pardon?”

“I will not forgive you,” Josephine says, smoothing her hands over her skirt, “Because there is nothing to forgive.  You have done me no wrong, other than neglecting to keep our scheduled appointments.  But in the stress and strain of the last few weeks, this is understandable, and so I have taken no offense.”  Her head tilts slightly, voice cautious in a way she rarely is with Cassandra.  “Perhaps your transgressions lie elsewhere?”

Cassandra raises a cool eyebrow.  “I have already spoken to him,” she says.  “But he does not yet remember sufficiently.”

Josephine nods sagely, hands folded neatly in front of her.  “And so you will remember for the two of you until he can, and run yourself into the ground in the meantime.  A sound plan.”

The noise Cassandra makes is something like her normal disgust, but sharper, a sword pointed inwards.  “I am not run into the ground,” she points out, though it’s a feeble argument to even her own ears.  “I only do what I need to now, so that later I can do what I must.”

“I do not believe that for one second,” Josephine informs her primly.  “I have seen your training, and I know what it means when it is mid-afternoon and you have been running since before dawn.  You have failed at something, and now you feel you must be punished.”

Cassandra makes an entirely different noise, one of mingled annoyance and negation.  “I am not trying for punishment,” she says.  “I am trying for  _ better _ .”

Josephine shifts on her feet, resettles her hands against her skirt.  “Of course.”

The rebuke stings all the more for being implied, and Cassandra can do nothing but swallow back whatever sharp, wholly inadequate retort forms on her tongue.  Instead, she skirts around Josephine.  “I am expected at the infirmary.”  She most decidedly does  _ not  _ look back.

\----------------------------------

“Three more,” Cassandra says, a week later, watching with sharp eyes as Cullen lifts the sack of grain high up over his head before letting it drop to the floor.  His arms strain with the effort as he bends to pick it up again, but he doesn’t complain, just sets his teeth hard enough she can see the muscle in his cheek jump through the next two repetitions.  When he finishes, he drops the sack and stands there a moment, wiping sweat from his eyes and trembling with exertion.

Cassandra makes no comment, only brings him the bucket of water and settles on the bench to dig in the satchel the healers gave her to find the ointment buried at the bottom.  “Sit,” she says, and gestures in front of her.

With a put-upon sigh, Cullen does, facing away so she can see the healing wound on his back.  

“Tomorrow, we will have no training,” she tells him as she starts to apply the ointment.  “And we will start shield drills the day after.”  

He nods but says nothing, sitting motionless in front of her, and doesn’t even flinch when she starts to bandage his shoulder.  A weighty, almost tangible silence settles between them.  Cassandra finishes as quickly as she can, and settles what’s left over back into the satchel with efficient hands.

“Thank you,” Cullen says as he stands, shrugging his tunic back on.  There’s a moment where he hesitates, hands moving towards the empty armor stand in the corner on reflex before he lets them drop.  “I can’t quite reconcile this,” he admits, turning to her with a rueful smile.  “Being without armor.  It’s almost like being naked.”

“It is nothing like being naked.”  She can feel her face settle into a scowl without even meaning to.  It’s not the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said to her.  It is, in fact, a sentiment she understands.  But she is in no mood for his Ferelden sense of humor at the moment. “I will see you in two days’ time.”  Without another word, she turns on her heel and heads for the soldiers’ barracks, and does her best to ignore the daggers of his confusion aimed between her shoulders.

The ache in her jaw tells her she is something less than successful.

\-------------

Cassandra is in the middle of conducting a check of shields--a completely unnecessary task, given Knight-Captain Rylen completed one only that afternoon--when the knock at the armory door comes.  Surprisingly, it’s Cullen’s silhouette that stands in the doorway, not Josephine’s, and Cassandra’s heart drops traitorously.  Here now is the end of their friendship, no less difficult for being so long in coming.  

She’s standing before she realizes it, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin to face the deserved blow.  Cullen pauses just over the threshold, and it’s only then she notices the twin plates in his hands, which is too unexpected for her to try to puzzle out.

“Lunch. I know you haven’t eaten,” he says, lifting the plates slightly before skirting around her to set one of them at her seat.  “Since no one in Skyhold has seen hide nor hair of you, save Master Harritt.”

Cassandra can’t help but look at him dumbfounded as he sits and starts to eat as if nothing is wrong.  As if he intends to make her  _ wait  _ in anticipation of the blow before he strikes.  “What are you doing?”

He looks up at her mid-chew, brow furrowed in confusion before he swallows whatever’s in his mouth.  “Eating?”  His head tilts to the side slightly before it evidently pulls on his shoulder.  He straightens with a stifled wince.  “What should I be doing?”

She folds her arms and scowls at him, straightening to her full height.  “I would prefer if you just did whatever it is you have come here to do and left me in peace.”

The confusion on his face only deepens.  “I have come here to eat, and to make sure you do the same.”  He gives a one-shouldered shrug.  “And if you wanted to tell me what has you storming around Skyhold like a Bronto with an arrow in its hide…”  Holds his hands out as if to say  _ I wouldn’t object _ .

Cassandra’s jaw aches with the tension, but it’s better than any of the alternatives.  “There is nothing wrong,” she tells him sternly, and when he huffs in disbelief, clenches her fists tightly.  “I just do not enjoy being toyed with like a cat with its prey.”  When he only looks at her blankly, bites out, “Shall I spare you the difficulty?  You wish to end our...association.”

If she’d told him the Inquisitor was really three Mabari in a tunic, he couldn’t look more surprised.  His mouth works for a moment, but no sound comes out until he manages an overly-loud “ _ What _ ?!”

Before she can answer, he’s on his feet, hands settled on the table, leaning closer.  “That’s…  You…  Is that…”  He stops, stands straight to rub the back of his neck with his good hand before letting it drop with a wince.  “You are mistaken.”  When Cassandra only stares back implacably, repeats himself more forcefully.  “You are  _ mistaken. _  That is not what I intended to say at all.  it is not why I am here now, and is not something that has even crossed my mind.”  Her mouth opens to speak and he raises a hand to stop her.  “ _ No _ .”

The news that he  _ hasn’t  _ been waiting to sever their friendship startles her into dropping her defensive posture.  “No?”

“No,” he says again.  “Is that why you’ve been so on edge?  What possible reason could I have to want that?”

The creaking of her gloves is the only sign of her tension.  “I have proven I am not worthy of your trust,” she reminds him, as if reading the charges at her own Judgement.  “I did not pay close enough attention when you needed me most.  I forced you to undergo unnecessary suffering.  I did not notice the corruption.  I took your  _ command _ .”

Cullen takes a step back as if she’d lunged at him with a weapon.  “Maker’s breath, Cassandra.  How could you be so wrong?”  He runs a hand through his hair, watching her with an earnest expression on his face.  “You protected my reputation.  You did everything you could to help me.  You saved my  _ life _ .  Why would I turn away from you now?”  With a weary sigh, he rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the rough wood of the table.  “No.  I could not have a better friend than you.  No hurt lies behind us; no blame lies between us.  Things are as they always have been.”

Cassandra watches him for a long moment, throat closed up with some emotion she doesn’t care to identify.  There is not a shred of deceit in him--not that she truly expected to find any.  

“Is this why you have been avoiding me?” he asks eventually, settling back down on the floor and picking up his plate.  “Other than training?”

Shame sends her cheeks flushing.  “I have not been  _ avoiding  _ you.  I have been busy.”  But she settles on the other side of the room from him, keeping her gaze pinned to her food as she eats.  Cullen, Maker bless him, says nothing to contradict her lie, taking his cues from her as he settles back to his own meal.

Another silence settles between them, this time slightly more comfortable than before--the first embers of a return to their normal ease flickering gently to life.

Sometime later, when the meal has been finished and they have each nursed a cup of tea long after it’s grown cold, Cullen rises, stretches carefully favoring his shoulder only slightly.  

“Perhaps we might actually spar tomorrow?”  There is a faint hint of hopefulness in his voice.  It has been weeks, she knows, since he’s drawn his sword, and the urge must be nigh on unbearable.

“Perhaps,” she allows, with an incline of her head, as if bestowing a privilege.  

He rolls his eyes, but says only “As you say.”  And then, meeting her eyes pointedly, “My care is in your hands.”

The tiniest flicker of warmth glows under the guilt and self-recrimination settled deep in Cassandra’s chest.  Not sufficient to completely burn them away, but enough.  He has faith in her, she realizes.   _ Still _ .  

Despite her weeks of doubt, of  _ failure _ \--not just once but over and over again.  It’s not good enough. If he can claw and crawl his way out of the grave, then she can wrestle and battle her own shortcomings.  And this time, she’ll  _ win. _

Cullen silently gathers up their dishes, catches her eye before he slips out the door. He smiles, nods, and there is the glimmer of her Commander under the healing bruise-shadows. 

It reminds her:  Trying, sometimes, is enough. 


End file.
